The Damned Utd

by David Peace

  Two years ago, when Derby County won the title, I refused to take part in the old Charity Shield; pissed them off no end, the FA, the Derby board, the fucking lot of them. Two years ago, I sent Derby on their pre-arranged pre-season tour of Germany instead –

  This year there’s no escape. No escape at all –

  Three o’clock or thereabouts on Saturday afternoon, I will have to lead out that team at Wembley. His team. Not mine. Three o’clock, I will have to stand side by side with the great Bill Shankly. It will be Shankly’s last bow, having retired in July. His last chance to lead out a team of his at Wembley –

  The Wembley Way. The twin towers. The Empire Stadium. The tunnel. The National Anthem. The handshakes. The presentations. The crowd. The kick-off …

  Three o’clock. Three o’clock –

  And I’ll wish I wasn’t there, anywhere but there.

  Day Ten

  There have been alarms and there have been scares. There have been insults and there have been threats. Broken cups and slammed doors. Doubts and fears. But you were top in February and you were top in March and you’re still top now in April –

  You beat Fulham 1–0 and you beat Bolton 5–1 –

  You are guaranteed promotion with four games still to go, four games that could also see you promoted as Second Division Champions, four games starting with a 1–0 victory over Sheffield United, a 1–0 victory that opens up a seven-point lead over Crystal Palace and means Palace need to win all of their final four games while you need just two points from your last three games to be Champions, two points from your last three games starting today –

  Saturday 12 April 1969.

  You and the team are back down in London. Back down on your luxury team coach to one of the capital’s finest hotels, back down to your breakfasts in your beds and another splendid reception from your travelling fans, this time on Cold Blow Lane, this time outside the Den –

  There is a moment of panic, a moment of doubt, when it turns out you’ve brought the wrong kit, when it turns out you’ll have to play in the Millwall away kit –

  ‘It’s a bloody omen,’ says Jack Burkitt. ‘A bad bloody omen.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ you tell him. ‘You’re talking fucking bollocks.’

  You run out onto the pitch at the Den in the Millwall away kit and the Millwall players line up to applaud you, applaud your promotion –

  But it’s not promotion you’re thinking about today –

  Two bloody points and that fucking title is all you’re thinking about today and from the kick-off you control the match, you take it by the scruff of its bloody neck and never let it fucking go, not to Millwall, not to their fans, not to the bloody acrobatics of their keeper King, not to the fucking dust and wind that bellows round Cold Blow Lane –

  Nothing is going to stop you. No way. Not today. Bloody nothing –

  Not Millwall. Not their fans. Not their keeper –

  Not the dust and not the wind. Not today:

  Mackay rolls a short free-kick to Webster. Webster runs down the right wing. Webster crosses to McFarland. McFarland heads it back across their goal to Carlin and Willie nods it home to score the only goal of the game –

  Short, sweet, simple fucking football and you are the Champions –

  The Champions of Division Two –

  You are the Champions.

  * * *

  Leeds will stay at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington tonight and so we are due to leave Elland Road for London this afternoon. But the team still trains this morning while I do contracts; Madeley, Allan Clarke and Frankie Gray. The only two contracts not yet signed are those for Giles and Yorath. Then there is the press conference –

  That length of rope with which to hang yourself. That knife. That gun …

  ‘There have been no moves whatsoever for Shilton,’ I tell the pens and the pads. ‘I’ve made no offer and no enquiry and, although I’ve contemplated buying Peter Shilton a million times before, I have not done so while I have been at Leeds.’

  They chew the ends of their biros and they ask, ‘What about all the rumours?’

  ‘Nobody is going from this club in exchange deals or any other deals until I have been here a very long time. Nobody has asked for a transfer, nobody wants to go and nobody is going. I have two goalkeepers with whom I am delighted.’

  They scratch their chins and they ask, ‘Why hasn’t Giles signed his contract yet?’

  ‘I have not yet seen him about his contract,’ I tell them. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

  They blow their noses and they ask, ‘What are your feelings about tomorrow?’

  ‘The game gives us a terrific chance to get away to a good start,’ I tell them. ‘You cannot have tougher opposition than Bill Shankly and Liverpool, and everybody will be going like bombs. We have trained hard all week, got on with our jobs, made a signing and are all now looking forward to the match.’

  Liar, liar, I’m thinking. They’re thinking, Your whole body’s on fire.

  The press conference over, I show my face to the directors then I change my gear, get my suitcase from the office and go out to the coach. They are all sat there in their Sunday best, smoking and sulking, whispering and waiting for me, with their paperback books and their packs of cards. I make Sniffer shift again so I can sit next to Bremner again. Billy rolls his eyes and lights another fag –

  ‘You don’t fucking give up, do you?’ he says.

  ‘Never,’ I tell the man –

  This the man I watched and commentated on for ITV at the World Cup this summer, captaining his country, beating Zaire 2–0, drawing with Brazil, drawing with Yugoslavia, sticking it up the press boys, this the man who was Scotland, this man who sits beside me now and stares out of the window at the rain and the motorway, this man who Revie thought of as a second son, this man who would run through fire for Don, who walks on water for the people of Leeds, the people of Scotland, this man beside me now, lighting another fucking fag and pretending to read a bloody paperback book until he turns to me, until he finally turns to me and asks –

  ‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough?’

  The cunt. Cunt. Cunt –

  Halfway down the M1, the coach stops at a service area. Everyone gets off for a coffee and a piss. It’s raining hard as I walk across the car park to the foyer –

  The fucking cunt. Cunt. Cunt –

  I come out of the toilets and they’re all stood around the one-arm bandits, signing autographs and getting kisses off the waitresses –

  The cunts. Cunts. Cunts –

  ‘Come on,’ I tell them. ‘Let’s all go for a walk around the car park.’

  ‘Walk?’ spits Bremner. ‘I’ve never been for a fucking walk in my life.’

  ‘Get going,’ I tell them. ‘Stretch your legs, you lazy buggers!’

  They stare at me and, for one moment, they look like they won’t go. But then Captain Bremner opens the door and leads them one by one out into the rain and the car park, leads the League Champions around the service-station car park –

  In the rain. In their Sunday best. In the rain. In their polished shoes –

  ‘Good man, Billy,’ I tell him as I catch him up. ‘Stretch them legs.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he hisses at me. ‘I’m getting bloody soaked here.’

  ‘I thought you lot bloody loved these kinds of communal activities,’ I tell him. ‘Round of golf. Bit of bingo. Carpet bowls. Thought that was all part of Don’s appeal? Togetherness. One for all and all for one. One big happy family.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Bremner. ‘One big happy family; till you fucking turned up.’

  * * *

  The very last game of the season. The very last game in the Second Division –

  Saturday 19 April 1969 –

  Home to Bristol City. Home in front of 31,644 fans. Home as Champions.

  You’ve had your hair cut, your suit pressed and your shoes shined –

  The players, your p
layers, do a lap of honour while Bristol stand on the pitch and wait for the game to begin, the mauling to begin –

  The midfield of John McGovern, Alan Durban and Willie Carlin are in their element with a first-half hat-trick from Durban, plus one from Kevin Hector, and then one from Alan Hinton which is the pick of the five –

  Dave Mackay clips the ball forward to Willie Carlin. Carlin takes the ball into the box then back-heels the ball to Alan Hinton. Hinton runs onto the ball and never stops, never breaks stride, just lashes it with his left foot into the bottom corner of the net –

  Unstoppable. Unstoppable. Un-fucking-stoppable –

  Green. Webster. Robson. Durban. McFarland. Mackay. McGovern. Carlin. O’Hare. Hector and Hinton.

  Dave Mackay goes up the steps. Mackay picks up the trophy –

  The Second Division Championship trophy –

  Mackay holds it aloft in his right hand –

  The crowd roars. The crowd chants –

  ‘Derby! Derby! Derby!’

  You stand before the chairman, the directors and the board, stand before them with your players and your trophy, the sound of the crowd ringing around the Baseball Ground, ringing around the whole of the bloody town –

  This time last year there were 20,000 here to see you lose to Blackpool. The year before 11,000. This time last year Dave Mackay thought he’d played his last game. Today there are 32,000 here. Today you are Champions –

  You shake Dave’s hand. Peter pats Dave’s back –

  Dave Mackay is one year older than you; umpteen medals, cups and caps heavier than you, he will be named joint Footballer of the Year for this season –

  But you are still smiling from ear to bloody ear –

  Still smiling from ear to fucking ear –

  The chairman too. The board –

  The whole fucking town.

  * * *

  They are not my team. Not mine. Not this team, and they never will be. They are his team. His Leeds. His dirty fucking Leeds, and they always will be. Not my team. Never. Not mine. Never. Not mine. Never. Not this team. Never –

  It is gone midnight and I cannot sleep. I’ve drunk too bloody much again and I’ve got a thumping fucking headache. The hotel room is too hot and the pillows are too hard and I miss my wife, I miss my kids and I wish I wasn’t me, Brian Howard Clough. Not for tonight and not for tomorrow. I get out my address book. I pick up the phone. I dial his number and I wake him up:

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Brian Clough,’ I tell him.

  ‘What the hell do you want, Brian? It’s past midnight.’

  ‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘I’m very sorry to wake you up like this.’

  ‘Are you drunk, man? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘This is your team,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to lead them out at Wembley.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You won the league,’ I tell him. ‘You lead them out tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ve got the job now, Brian,’ says Don Revie. ‘It’s your privilege.’

  * * *

  The sky is dark but clear, the stands empty but for the rubbish and the echoes. The crowd have all gone home or to the pub, to celebrate the Second Division Championship; the start of the Golden Age. But not you –

  You stand in the mouth of the tunnel at the Baseball Ground and you watch Dave Mackay practising with your eldest and your youngest, kicking ball after ball after ball into the wooden shooting box, a little wooden target area beneath the old main stand –

  Put it in a box, hide it in a tree, the tallest tree you can see…

  Ball after ball after ball, ball after ball after ball –

  Because this is the happiest day of your life …

  Because this is the first thing you have ever won and, like your first pair of boots, your first kiss and your first car, you’ll never forget the hours of this day –

  Saturday 19 April 1969.

  Day Eleven

  Bill Shankly walks out of the Wembley tunnel alone, out onto the Wembley pitch, out to a massive ovation from the whole of the Wembley stadium, the Leeds fans as well as the Liverpool ones –

  You’ll never walk alone.

  Then Revie takes his salute from the pitch, from both sets of fans –

  Marching on together –

  Revie in his lucky blue suit; his match-day suit –

  Fingers crossed for his team, his boys.

  I turn to Bremner in the tunnel, turn to see if he’s applauding his old boss, but Billy’s looking at his boots. Billy’s been in a fucking rotten mood from the moment we got him up; cursing at breakfast, cursing at lunch. Having a go at the receptionist, the waiter, the coach driver and half the bloody team. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s London. The occasion. Now he walks out behind me, dragging that League Championship trophy down the tunnel and across the pitch, leading out the glummest faces ever seen at Wembley. I turn to Shanks and his Liverpool side and I applaud him as we walk from the tunnel to the touchline, the team he built behind him, the team Revie built behind me –

  Harvey Clemence

  Reaney Smith

  Cherry Lindsay

  Bremner Thompson, P.

  McQueen Cormack

  Hunter Hughes

  Lorimer Keegan

  Clarke Hall

  Jordan Heighway

  Giles Boersma

  Gray, E. Callaghan

  Through the noise of 67,000 people clapping and cheering, I ask Bill, ‘How many times have you done this, sir?’

  But Shankly does not reply, his head high, his eyes fixed –

  On this one last match. His last ever match …

  Fixed on the future. Fixed on regret –

  Regret. Regret. Regret.

  From the kick-off, Bremner and the Irishman nip and snap at Liverpool’s heels, but it’s Sniffer who gets the first blood; a four-inch gash in Thompson’s shin. Then the Irishman receives a dose of his own medicine from Tommy Smith. This is how it starts –

  The 1974 FA Charity Shield; Liverpool vs Leeds –

  Dirty, dirty Leeds, Leeds, Leeds …

  Every kick and every touch, with every trip and every punch –

  This is what you think we are, they say. This is who you say we are …

  Then this is what we are, they shout. This is who we are …

  Dirty, dirty Leeds, they sing. Dirty, dirty Leeds, Leeds, Leeds …

  His eyes in the stands. Behind my back. His eyes in that suit –

  Dirty, dirty Leeds, Leeds, Leeds.

  This is how it starts and that is how it will finish; Bremner and the Irishman kicking Liverpool up the arse –

  Up the arse and in the balls. Particularly Kevin Keegan –

  Keegan who dodges behind Hunter and Cherry with ease to lash in a shot that Harvey cannot hold, that lets Boersma knee the ball into the net on twenty minutes. From then on it’s all Liverpool; Heighway and Callaghan running rings around Hunter and Cherry. Thank Christ for Paul Reaney on the right and Eddie Gray on the left because the rest of them are bloody shite –

  This is what you think we are. This is who you say we are …

  Then this is what we are. This is who we are.

  Off the pitch and out of the light, down the tunnel and down the corridor, in the half-light and the full stench of their Wembley dressing room at half-time, I tell them, ‘The first fifteen minutes, you were all over them. Then Bremner and the Irishman here, they decided to give Keegan the freedom of the fucking park and now you’re losing, losing because of Kevin bloody Keegan and these two clowns, these two clowns and their lack of bloody concentration and their lack of fucking responsibility, their complete bloody abdication of any fucking sense of responsibility.’

  * * *

  You have built an ocean liner out of a shipwreck. You have played forty-two games. You have won twenty-six of them. Drawn eleven and lost five. You have scored sixty-five goals in those forty-two games and conceded just thirty-two. Those twenty-six win
s and eleven draws have brought you sixty-three points and the Second Division Championship; promotion to the First Division –

  You can’t wait for the new season to start –

  You can’t, can’t, can’t fucking wait.

  Just one little thing spoils this time and this place for you, and that one little thing is Leeds United and Don Revie winning the First Division Championship, and to make this one little thing much, much worse, the press are forever comparing Leeds and Derby: the clean sheets; the Scottish engine rooms of Bremner and Mackay; the Middlesbrough-born managers, Revie and yourself, cut from the same cloth; the list goes on and on –

  But you are not Don Revie and you will never be Don Revie. Never –

  ‘Whatever people say you are, that is what you’re not.’

  Derby County are not Leeds and you are not Revie –

  You are a dynamite-dealer, waiting to blow the First Division to Kingdom bloody Cum, the whole fucking game, because this is who you are –

  Brian Howard Clough, thirty-four, and a First Division manager –

  Brian Howard Clough and nobody else –

  An ocean liner out of a shipwreck.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes into the second half, Kevin Keegan hustles the Irishman from behind and Giles whips round and punches Keegan in the face with his right fist. They will burn the grass. Giles, the player-manager of the Republic of Ireland; John Giles, the would-be assistant manager of Tottenham Hotspur; Johnny Giles, the should-be manager of Leeds United. Turn this grass to ash. The referee gets out his book. Keegan pleads for leniency on behalf of Giles. The Irishman stays on the pitch but goes in the book. Turn this field to dust. Minutes later, Bremner and Keegan collide during a Leeds free-kick. They will salt this earth. There is a sea of fists, kicks to the heels and digs to the ribs. Leave this ground as stone. Keegan flies round and swings out at Bremner. Barren and fallow for ever. Bob Matthewson sends them both off –